A Ship-Shape Church
We come to church expecting to be fed—physically with coffee and cookies, spiritually with a rousing sermon. We come expecting to be entertained by talented musicians and a skillful preacher.
We come to church expecting to be fed—physically with coffee and cookies, spiritually with a rousing sermon. We come expecting to be entertained by talented musicians and a skillful preacher.
After reading about the potential elimination of the German major at Calvin, I’m writing to tell you a bit about what German at Calvin meant and continues to mean to me.
I was that kid who freaked out when my ice cream sandwich broke in half. I remember being five years old at my grandparents’ house, shrieking in agony over the broken dessert.
“How’s school?” Grandma Shirley asks me this every single time I see her, even though I graduated many months ago. She was at the graduation.
“YOU DESERVE HELL.” The murmurs that skittered through our classroom when that sign marched to the front row drew the attention of the professor.
I’m pretty sure it’s Christmas’ fault. We’ve entered the season when everyone and their mothers has something inspirational or encouraging to say.
Crushing on characters (both alive and dead, real and fictional) is probably what steered me toward my lucrative career path in words and stuff.
We walked a few blocks from the museum to find food (unreasonably passing on a café whose window quoted Jay Gatsby: “Well, he’s no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town. . . .”).
The film, Hunger Games: Catching Fire, followed the book decently, but they added a brilliant (Read: horribly irritating) element: excessive screaming.
There is a freedom to being a child that I will never experience again. There is a freedom in being aware of time but not fearing it. There is freedom to not feeling guilty about doing nothing.